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Full text of "The Gleaner"




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PTTW^ 



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Wter 1998-99 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis IVIembers and Sloan Foundation 



http://www.archive.org/details/gleaner99stud 



The Gleaner 
1998-1999 



established 1901 



Delaware Valley College 

Doylestowriy Pennsylvania 



Co-Editors 

Robin Goldblum 
Blake Heffler 



Publication Advisor 
Dr. Karen N. Schramm 



1998-1999 Gleaner Staff 



Elizabeth Ann Leiter 

Rachel Stick 

Samantha Schwartzman 



Front Cover: Robin Goldblum 
Inside & Back Cover: Dr Karen Schramm 

Special thanks to the following: 

Dr. Linda Maisel for coordinating the 
Gleaner High School Writing Competition 

Mrs. Edna Manlove for her technical assistance 

Mr. Barry Denlinger and PTGraphics, Inc., 

for their time and generosity 



^B^p^y 




Delaware Valley 3 =1 1 College 





Wv^mmj^^ Disea«^ 



W^ tmim ^m tfy^mmieir^s disease. 



■-«<' 



IK^ISivehope 

Yet It is njit in Que tumiit 
l!^|iii^ goals 

T<@l; ^le^ Jiee net @e«di ^nonyglb^ 
^^ iBs^ie insipteaiSiMii 

Tet it is iijot SRiKratk 
^H^leive ideas 



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©an "^^ liawfe Mi.c^©e®^' 

©in wee prosper a^ a smksIj^I^ 

©in we worii as a team to reacii ai lendlted ^alf 

It tftat the dJEeajBBneE^s disease? 

Qur lk«»|>e^ it «i?cii^ie€ ^ ^ioli^tjBe and @e^^ 
Qnr goals ase fi^raiedl 6r conilSi^liiqi goy egiii ne nt^ 
Qixp Inspiration is destroyed ^iminoral role modelSir 
Our ideas eiPtSni^shed by ns^ow'^innd^ poQ^^ani^ 



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What It thje dreamer's disease? 

W^ht disease £i not a dfraease at alt> 

It is ^^at Is gole^ to vml^ our generation cdi^feratc^^ 

We have the ^vant 
We have the need 
We have the yi^Bk 

And we -win mmqnerit 







We ^i«ill take back ivhat is rightEully ours. 
We 'wlU hut'clte any obstacles already placed In front of us. 
We 'will tear do^wn any barriers that stand in our ivay. 
And we "wiU achieve our hopes and dreams. 

Do '^ve have the dreamer's disease? 
Yes Mre do! 

ILet's open our minds. 
Le^s create our future. 
£et^s take poiver back. 

We MnVL not bo'w do^rn to any of the mistakes created by generations 

before us. 

We ^viU not let crooked politicians control our Uves. 

We wilt not be told ^vhat to 4^» 



Let^s fight back and make It our worldl 



Byt, Hick Bemsteui 




The Stranger 



I met him the other day. 

Under the light of the full moon. 

He wore a dark cape. 

Told me he came for me, 

For my soul. 

And that he would get. 

Eventually. 

His raspy voice, mumbled. 

Mumbled the words. . . 

Forgiveness. . . forgive me. . . 

The truth will come about. 
Thick, massive fingers 
Took my last breath away. 
Now you look into my eyes; 
See The darkness? 
But can you see deeper. 
Further into my soul? 
See the light at the other end? 
All the love I have to give? 
Don't you see it? 
Reach out and get it. 
Save me, save yourself 
One must overcome the darkness. 
For darkness is a blanket 
That holds you bound in chains. 
Smothering everything. 
Including you. 
The truth will come out. 
Push through the darkness. 
Come out, 
Come out and play. 



By, Shannon Clements 



THE GIFT 

lox fJr c^uaxuthinq cHahhETLi. that (Lan t us. J^ons" J 
urLtk ahoLoqisi. to £.. £.. awnminat 

<^Vj jathsx nzouei tnxouqk a ojozLa of Lou£, 

vVko gaus. to ms tns Lovz of "Liuz, " 
—Ins. iiou of rm. — 
tns hauE. of a Cue, 
the. nooj of ujhsn - 
tkz hzilp. of nzsa - - 
-Jh£. hxohex tints, to jiLant a i££a. 
i/mo ikocvsa to ms tks. hsxtas. of itxifs, - 
tns. caLm of fsax, 
tn£. I'oui of Lifs. 
erf bxoiisn auh that cuai xshaixea, 
crj- Lazu axoananoa in hli. Laix. 
erf i-tiottsA txout- 
a Mating xinli; 

<erf thoui.and million, ivagi to 1 JHIJLLN J^o 

erf Lraiju aniak cvlzois. Lifs. ivai Lo±t - 

-Jo do uoux hsit, at anu aoit. 

^Wko aiked of m£, the. "£fi." of "cShouLd" 

himiElf a Liuinq "j^ons. " of "CouLa" 

£fn txutiz the. "^ius." of otizEXi. "^ahs." - 

I fox nzE aLctjaui. - ths. fix of bx£.alz ) 

_/«£ UToxLa U uis-oj io maaiaaLuj - 

^ox alL tn£. Lous. he. aiusi. to me.. 

By, Joann Donigan 



Solitude, Silence. 

Not a sound to be heard. 

But alas, a whisper 

Faint, faint as can be. 

Barely audible, but heard nonetheless. 

The words spoken are important 

Wanted to be heard by all. 

Each word, each sentence 

A meaning all its own. 

Words with forever meaning, 

Never changing for it is truth. 

Barely audible, but important. 

Listen carefully to not miss a syllable 

His words hold everlasting truth 



By, Kelly Barnes 




p^ ^^^f 




EM_ 



War Song 

The distant sound of gunfire pulls tears from 

the soldier's eyes. 
Another frightftil day he is not prepared to die. 
Clouds rumble overhead, blocking out the sun. 
He is too scared to fight, yet too brave to run. 
The heat of battle draws nearer with each labored breath 
Beckoning closer the inevitable death. 
He remembers of days long past. 
Of love for all eternity to last. 
There is no hope, for he is already dead 
Still he trudges along with legs of lead. 
In a sudden blur all is lost- 
Nothing to gain, yet life is the cost. 
As he passes away a tear comes to his eye: 
He did nothing wrong and still he must die. 
Young of the Earth, yet old of the mind; 
So much to do, absolutely no time. 
He lies still on the ground, for his spirit is gone. 
Nameless to us, yet we all know his song. 



By, 

Courtney Beidelman 



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EAL 




No real words, 

Just looks and gestures. 

Do they mean what they portray? 

Can 1 truly follow my heart, 

Believe what it's telling me? 

Lack of communication 
Does not fill my needs. 
Words are important. 
More important than actions. 
Do our actions portray 
The way we feel, 
Or is it true on one end. 
But false on another? 

Are the actions enough. 
Enough to fill the void? 
No, I need more, 
I need words from the heart. 

11 



By, Kelly Barnes 




^r. ~Xaj^vCi2_ Cor'o^e^ 



Untitled V 

In the time past hippie love 

Was you, me and the green earth 

Days of old, we were longing 

Where we could stand naked 

Without hate in our hearts 

The dawn was ours and our alone 

You and I and the sunrise 

We bathe in the moonlight 

Shimmering water and moonbeams 

Dance upon your naked form 

The water is ours and ours alone 

We kiss under the silver pendent 

In the cloak of night as water 

Flows around us 

We embrace in a kiss 

Dare not breathe my love this night 

Taste the lava in your blood. 

The ice in my eyes cold and blue 

Taste you will my tear upon my cheek 

We are alone 

We are ours and ours alone 

Nothing was wanted 

Because we had all we needed 

You and I and the green earth 

Where we lie naked 

Upon the gold sand beach 

We two as one 

We are safe, alone without sin 

The world is ours and ours alone 

Naked, we kiss 

Bodies naked 

Breathing as one, you and I 

You my earth, my moon 

I, your stars, your sun 

We breathe the same air of a kiss 

Lip to lip we are one 

Naked on the green earth 

We as one 

Alone 

Naked 

Freedom, ours and ours alone 

Unbound unfold we are one 

No heaven no hell 



13 



by, 



Matt Baker 



14 



Coral Castle 

Made by the hands of one man alone, 

A dedication to lost love, 

Inside, a heart-shaped dining table, gliding revolving table, throne room, and more. 

Not of clouds, dreams, or sand, but of coral. 

Fashioned in the mysterious ways of the pyramids. 

This coral castle of love is a riddle never to be solved. 

By, Robin Goldblum 



Listening to the choir 

Choirs of prophets chanting "para donde vas" 
The gallant noble priest "ich bin ein berliner" 
Angels with dirty faces peer through rainbow glass 
Naked children dancing in frankincense and myrrh 

A thousand points of light that no one can see 
Eyes closed it seems to get darker after the dawn 
Broken candles for homeless on avenue b 
Music says the lunatics are on the east lawn 

Simple hollow faith barks we have god on our side 
Dow Jones, Merrill Lynch are the new idolatry 
Blue light special abortions coat hangers aisle nine 
Look, see George chop the roots out from dad's cherry tree 

No black and white adorn the man on the soap box 
He tastes truth life is like a box of chocolates. 

JDS 




The Past's Future 

Birds screeched and flew out of the way as she ran through their forest domain. 
An arrow whizzed by her ear and crashed into the tree next to her. Woodchips dug into 
her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. She took no notice of it as she continued to flee. 

Sasha glanced behind herself. There was no sign of her pursuers but that didn't 
mean they weren't far back. She ducked behind a huge oak tree that was surrounded by 
thick, green bushes. In silence, she waited, holding her breath in anticipation. After a 
few seconds, a group of soldiers ran past the oak tree. The sharp metal blades of their 
swords reflected the sunlight and their heavy armor clinked noisily. The thundering of 
her heartbeat filled her ears while she stood perfectly still. The soldiers continued on, 
neither seeing nor hearing her. 

Relief washed over her body like a great waterfall. Air whistled in and out 
between her lips as she struggled to capture her breath. She was careful to hide herself 
among the bushes as she sat down with her back against the tree. Tears of fury and rage 
welled up in her eyes but she would not let them spill. That was for another time. 

Sasha thought back to the jumble of faded, torn papers contained in the strange 
box she'd found in her father's potato field. It was through them that all her questions 
about the past were answered and the truth of her existence was discovered. Her world 
was much like any other seventeen-year old girl's living in the year 216 R.A. (real age). 
Her father owned a small piece of farmland in the northwestern continent, and they lived 
in a one-room shack. The floor was made of dirt and the walls of rotting, bug-infested 
wood. A dirty, stone well was the source of water for her father, younger brother, and 



herself. Their mother had died along with their younger sister during childbirth five 
years earlier. It was a painful experience, but medicine was rare and usually didn't work. 
All one had a chance to learn was their father's trade, so her destiny was farming. 

That was until she'd found the buried box. It wasn't made of normal materials 
like wood or metal, but something called plastic. She'd read that on the side of it. It took 
her a long time to figure out how to unlatch it, but inside she found the truth about the 
history of the Earth. 

Three hundred years earlier, life on Earth had been better for the average person 
living in the northwestern continent. A thing called technology, a word Sasha did not 
understand, was in full bloom and all people were considered equal. A new invention 
called the computer came into being. They soon inhabited every home and school in 
97.6% of the countries in the world. People could play games on them, meet new people, 
and learn things. It was then decided to educate children through the computer instead of 
a traditional school. Over a period of thirty or forty years, real life slowly came to a halt 
as the youngest generation became completely dependent on them. A new disease 
developed that people nicknamed 'computer eyes" which infected millions across the 
globe. It developed from staring at the computer screen for extended periods of time, like 
years. Still people refused to give up their computer-generated refuges. 
It was then, during the Earth's most vulnerable time, that the Invaders came. They 
attacked from space before anyone realized what was going on. The people abandoned 
their computers and fought with renewed life. The bloody wars lasted for a decade but 
the Earth finally defeated the Invaders. Leaders from every section of the planet decided 
that the only way to prevent this from happening again was to ban all 



17 



technology and advancements made over the previous two centuries. Their 
reasoning was that no alien empires would want to conquer an innocent, farming-based 
planet. Critical things like plant feeders, airplanes, and medical equipment and drugs 
were eliminated. History books were burned and the past was forgotten. Disease and 
starvation ran rampant among the survivors trying to adapt at this new way of life. Only 
one group refused to obey the new laws laid down by the leaders of the Earth. The 
Rebels felt technology should have been changed rather than destroyed. They were 
cursed and executed until they moved underground to live the way they wanted in peace. 

As Sasha remembered that, she breathed in deeply. Her quest to find them was 
almost complete, she thought as she took out the map that had been in the plastic box. 
Surely they would have medicine to cure her brother of the deadly flu. She carefully 
looked to make sure the guards who protected the people were gone. A passage was 
indicated just a few steps ahead and she'd be - 

"Aaaahhh!" she screamed as her body fell through protective covering of the 
Rebel's hideout. She landed with a loud thud on her side, and the breath was knocked 
from her lungs. 

Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and helped her to her feet. Breathlessly, she 
managed to say, "Help me." 

"Of course," the deep voice said and released her. The man's clothes were 
strange but his smile was very reassuring. He looked at her and a surprised expression 
crossed his face. "You're from above!" 

"Yes, please help me. My brother is sick with the flu. I know you have medicine 
to cure him," she explained. 



He picked up a book marked 'Biology' and led her through a tunnel that extended into 
the ground. Small boxes on the ceiling released sunlight it must have captured, lighting 
the way. When Sasha looked back, she saw that the trap she'd fallen through had reset 
itself. When asked, her companion simply replied, "Optical illusion." After a moment of 
silent walking, he asked her, "How do you know of us? I thought everyone up there had 
forgotten." 

Sasha handed him the map. "I found that with the truth. Everything was wrong. 
Technology never should have been given up. I want to — "She stopped mid-sentence, 
for the sight before her stunned her into silence. 

The underground cavern was huge. Tall as a skyscraper, wide as a large park, the 
whole thing lit by artificial light. Part of a town had been built inside and tunnels in the 
walls extended to other places. This, however, was where the stores were located. Her 
guide told her to stay at the edge of the tunnel while he went to get what she needed from 
the drug store. Not a word came out of her as he returned and led her back to the opening 
above. 

"May I come back?" she asked as he handed her the medicine. 

"I hope you will. Just don't tell anyone up there where we are. It"s a secret," he 
smiled and helped her out. 

As she emerged, Sasha thought to herself, "We are the ones living in the past. 
They are the future." 

By, Robin Goldblum 



19 



I see the world 

I have seen the world today. 

With its sex and lies all on video tape 

I'm sorry to say 

And its rapes and murders and child abuse galore. 

Don't forget the tears 

Oh! Its suffering and its poor. 

I've seen the night sky blaze 

Immersed in its fire and polluted by war. 

I see the world 

I have seen the world today. 

With its laughs and its cheers, 

Filling the brilliance of day 

And its love and its care taking over you and me 

Oh! Its joyous youth seizing the day. 

I've seen the shimmering rainbow 

Clearly illuminating the path that heads our way. 

I see the world 
I have seen the world today. 
And I know it enough that it can't be one way. 
There can be a majority and to you I do say: 
20 How do you see the world 

How have you seen the world today? 

By, Luke Ottinger 



Time goes by 



It has only been three days, 

But days turn into years. 

Already he knows my feelings, 

Which were probably better left unsaid. 

For now he holds within his power 

The ability to make my soul complete 

Or to crush the dreams which I hold so dear. 

No one really knows and only time will tell 

If it will just be three days, 

Or the days turn into years. 



By, 

Courtney Beidelman 



!»*r^''^*!; 





:-m: 



The Nightmare of ReaUty 

In loving memory of 
RobSpicer 

To see 

Is not always to believe 

One has a sight - 

A vision, 

The beholder blinks 

To erase the nightmare 

But it repeats. 

Much like deja vus. 

If only it were known 

That the outcome 

Would have touched >'ok. 

If only the clock could 

Be turned back - 

My dream would NOT 

Have become ? 

Reality. 

And you could walk amongst us, 

Grace us with your presence - 

If only I might have known- ;. 

How shall I now live 

Knowing what I know - 

Knowing that every moment 

Was witnessed - 

Just days prior 

To that fatal Hour? 

Everyone passes, 

Yet there you lie, 

Only it's not who you are - 

You need a glove in hand, 

A smile, 

A skip in your step. 

And a heart overflowing 

With your golden love. 

Why must it be that 

One's heart be plagued 

By dreams 

Of reality - 

Yet not know who to call, 

Who to touch? 



By, Shannon Clements 



Why has God "blessed" some 

With this curse - 

To not be able to 

Give back 

To those who so deserve? . . . 



So now flowers grow 

Where you once played 

And our hearts can only remember 

What they want so much 

To forget - ;_ 

Yet cherish deeply, 

Heaven must be beautiful - 

And have diamonds 

That keep their green 

When everything here 

Turns dark and gray. 

(That's a remembrance of you.) 

Your gentle soul 

Reached out, 

To encompass all. 

And your arms embraced 

Even the outcasts of society. 

So dearly will you be missed; 

So much do I wish that 

I could be given 

Just a moment - 

To know. 

To tell you, of what lay ahead. . . 

To give back 

The rich fullness of your life. 

...Please smile down 

Upon us, 

Let us know 

Your forgiveness. 

Your love. 

Please be our 

Guardian Angel 

Now that you have grown wings. 




Is me 

The streetlight smiled down upon my soul 
As I sat on the porch drinking night 
Cool and crisp down my hungry palette 
Another star to make the universe whole 

Who am I to sit and quench mine thirst 
Not Jefferson's declaration or 
Any great letter from galleon 
Ordained me from an ignorant curse 

I am a poet, a dreamer of 
Many things and strings and ceiling wax 
Smiling before Cortez and Ceasar 
Shylock's witness to seeing love 

I have seen T.S. Eliot's love 
A hard wasteland with barren skyscrapers 
No waning moon to touch warmth under 
And no sunlight to dance above 

I have heard the chairman croon velvet 

Soft hands grasping together tighter 23 

Feeling sound like a soft memory 

Of the roars before I was bom 

I have sand Mr. Bob Dylan's words 
In meadows under teenage starlight 
Spoke of politics, god, siddartha 
Under trees serenaded by birds 

I have touched the warmth of midday naps 
and Rocky' s steps to Rodan's thinker 
I have felt the wind of country drives 
Riding chrome and steel without a map 

I have tasted the tiramissu 
Of a warming port before a blaze 
Cool refreshing water before a 
Well deserved rest from a honest day 

All of these have made me what you see 

A toe that touched waters east and west 

Fingers that ran through grass north and south 

Sitting on this street lit porch is me 

7/12/98 JDS 



Trainspott 

Laying across the tracks of life. Bright stars so far and shine in my 
eyes. DeaUng with true lies. People at this station stop say who's 
that? Take a step back feel the breeze as it leaves you with a memory 
full of smiled and colorful childs lets all come together as we ride the 
bad weather, coming closer to the millennium. Take it back to the roots 
where we drink and dance to the brass drums your feeling dumb with 
obsolete mentality you see your kids grow and go you unfold the spell. 
It's not what your were once told times change and all things rearrange 
you turn the page and see your mind in a cage filled with rage; as the 
winds die down you hear the sound of a different drummer your heart 
wants to move on but your mind stands strong saying this what we were 
taught but this is where you go wrong. Everyone gets derailed on the 
tracks of life but the reason to live is to grow stronger so these life 
living tracks will last longer. 

By, Chris Holman 



past times 

she sits 

feeling what I feel 

standing six feet close and 

closer 

wanting 

needing 

freedom 

we think about 

which destroys what we had and 

my emotion moves on. 



By, Chris Holman 




Dr. Janice Corbett 



25 




Sound Effects: Ammonoosuc Enchantress 

Sweetly singing silverbrooi<, 

Coppery clinks, lii<e 

Cowbeiis tinl<iing liquidly: 

Luscious loping wavelets 

Kissing pebbles coolly 



By, Dr. Karen Schramm 



26 




The Falcon 



The silhouette of a falcon 
Illuminated by the sun 
With wings spread far across the sky 
Through the mist of a waterfall 
It flies 

Like a phoenix out of the ashes 
A burning mist drips from her wings 
and she soars to the land of the stars 
to steal the gravel from father time 

the harmony of the gods clutched in its beak 
the falcon shoots down through the sky 
cold ice freezes feathers so sleek 
yet heart and soul and will to fly 
break the spell and light the fires of hell 

the world below never truly innocent 
judgment ripped from the hands of government 
the sun hides behind the hades 's mountains 
waiting for the phoenix to rise again. 



JDS 



27 




Dr. Karen Schramm 






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'ri 



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Sea Child 



As the moon rises from the sea, 
So do I just to see, 
. The mist rolls in to form an endless git, 
There to swallow up some unsuspecting ship. 
The gift of silence fills the air, 
To touch those who sit and stare, 
The moon rises in the sky, ,. 
To leave it's self in the looker! 
I raise my hands to the sky; « 
To ask the moon's praise oi^ 

A mere child of the sea, """ ""^ 
Floating where ever I shall be, ^ 

Caring not for the earth. 
But for the sea who gives birth. 
Birth to the few that have magic, ^ 
Let their fate not be tragief " 



^m 





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'■n(f^'f->7 l^ ' . 


Bi Ji^ 








Pacific Precipice 



Lining the 



pinnacle 
the 
to 
way up 
clinnbing 
and 
clinging 
tenacious, 
wind-strol<ed, 
artemesio — 
ice-plants 
chaparral, 
with stately names: 
rugged flora 
thrive: 
hardy plants 
by outcroppings, 
punctuated 
ridge-path 



^^^^^iS^^' 




where 

fog-l<issed, 

salt-savory 

cliff-rocks 

plunge 

so 

deliciously 

into 

cool 

indigo 

sea. 



29 



By Dr. Karen Schrannnn 



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Joyce Kunkle 



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Dr. Janice Corbett 



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Dr. Karen Schramm 



NIMROD 

I may have told you about the first time I went to the Tristate Trombone Association. It is 
simply a group of people who get together once a month in Philadelphia to play trombone music. 
But what a group! The guys from The Philadelphia are sometimes there as well as individuals, 
amateurs like me, generally referred to as "weekend warriors," guys who earn their paychecks not 
wearing tuxedoes, most of whom are considerably competent at blowing warm air through brass 
tubing. The director, if you could call him that, for what he does is not really so much actual 
directing as it is just sort of saying "okay, let's play this," is usually none other than Glenn 
Dodson himself, recently retired as P.T. (principal trombonist) at The Philadelphia and from a 
career of teaching at the venerable Curtis Institute of Music. Anyone who blows brass knows of 
him. The first time I went, at the encouragement of my teacher, I was apprehensive and put out 
little inquiries such as "Do you think I can hold my own?" "Do you really think I'm good 
enough?" Fishing, of course, for reassuring responses like "Don't worry, you'll be fme," but 
getting instead a hesitant, "Well, they are pretty charitable." Not at all reassuring. 

What they do is pass out music and then you play it. Right then. No previewing, no trial 
tooting. It's beyond sight-reading, because in sight-reading you aren't expected to get all the 
dynamics and tempo changes precise on the first run-through. Most of the others can do it. 
Actually, I held my own pretty well. 

Last week they distributed parts to a piece called "Nimrod" arranged for trombone 
ensemble by Glenn Dodson himself I'd heard that the first thing he did upon retirement was to 
buy an RV and spend the summer touring the West. I supposed his RV was a Nimrod and that the 33 

piece was to be yet another one of those "Songs of the Open" Road medley things that composers 
write when they come home from trips in their Nimrods. Now I know Nimrods, at least the RV 
variety, quite well, for I have followed them, with their decal collections from RV parks of the 
Great American West Plus Florida, up Trail Ridge Road in Colorado, up The Going To The Sun 
Highway in Montana, and through Capitol Reef National Monument in Utah. Generally, they 
creep; but you can't possibly pass them on those roads. Therefore they own the road exclusively 
and there's nothing you can do but crawl along behind them till you reach the summit. Then it's 
easy to pass because they pull aside to read the guidebook, fish around in the rear of the vehicle 
for another box of Pringles, and maybe glance out the window. Nimrods just don't inspire musical 
composition. 

We were supposed to play through this particular piece, arranged for eight trombonists. I 
could sort of do it but didn't really like it, appreciate it, nor much understand it. But on the way 
home I learned that it is from Elgar's "Enigma" variations, the 9th one, to be exact, and that 
nobody really knows why it's called that (that's what enigmatic about those variations) but it is 
probably based on the name of a mythological, biblical, or putatively noteworthy hunter. Of 
course there is a story behind that; of course 

it involves an enigma. I discovered that I have a recording of the piece on a compact 
disk, not for trombone ensemble but for full orchestra, and that it is beautiful. I figured 
out how to work the Repeat function on our CD player and I've had The London playing it all 
week long. It is haunting, the way those chords augment into each other then melt, mostly, but, 
exquisitely, not quite away only to resurge and diminish, to swell and 



dissolve, again and again. Wagner-like, but with a more optimistic sort of tension. You can't 
possibly hum it; there isn't much melody to hum. It's the way the chords progress from one to 
another that makes it work. 

Last weekend there was a special evening at Curtis to honor the career of Glenn Dodson.. 
At the pre-concert cocktail party 1 mingled about trying to insinuate myself into conversational 
groups and rapidly forsook the usual openers such as "So what kind of groups do you play in?" (a 
rough equivalent to the hiker's "So whereabouts are you folks from?"). The responses were 
sometimes things like "Various groups around Reading" or 
"A jazz quartet down the shore," but more often "The Chicago," or "The Phil." 

I should tell you about "The Phil". I sort of know who the folks in The 
Philadelphia Orchestra trombone section are and I knew these guys were not they. But I was not 
too proud to be dumb enough to ask.. They meant the New York Philharmonic. When I reached 
the head of the handshaking line I was stunned that Glenn Dodson himself remembered my name. 

Once they got through a long series of retirement party accolades and finally got around 
to playing a concert, things got serious. Just being in that intimate, hallowed recital hall in The 
Curtis Institute of Music, with all that fruit wood paneling, the padded chairs, and the barrel- 
vaulted ceiling, is an awesome experience, especially when you consider that a scientifically 
significant percentage of the best trombone players in the western world were assembled for this 
occasion right there in that room. 

34 And then they started to play. 

Oh, the tonal quality! Oh, the phrasing! 

Oh, the lip vibrato! Oh, the legato tonguing! 

The breath control! 

The diaphragmatic support! 

The air-to-vibration ratio! 

Oh, the music! 

Oh! 

And the last piece on the program: an octet performing the 9th variation, "Nimrod," by Eigar, the 
one with the enigmatic chord progressions. Glenn Dodson himself took the baton. It only lasts 
four and a half minutes. It was followed by an Eternity of that classic 
oxymoron known as "deafening silence." Eventually somebody overcame the suppressed 
lachrymation, gulped through the goosebumps for oxygen, and precipitated the applause. 

Deafening. 

I urge you; next time you're stuck behind a Nimrod, think of "Nimrod." 



By, Jim Miller 



"A Poem" 

All the poems have roles in it. 
Digesting power through a thought and 
carried along by the dragon's tongue. 
Locked in tiny cells within your mind 
lies the inferiority of man, captured 
by the legend of the snake. Taking 
time to curse death is our misery in 
which the snake laments. Serious is 
the sun who enters your drained blood. 
Am I speaking to you or being you? 
Jealous murdered greed on envy's 
behalf of lust 



35 



By, Erin Goldschmidt 













36 





37 



Don't let the city burn 

The city in all its glory, to mine eyes 
Dancing in the street to the hawkers cries 
Scents ancient Babylon, memories 
Of the stirring of the melting pot brewing 
Beneath concrete trees 

Strides taken to view it all, unkempt 
Glory in the raw, unholy ground 
To those with morals bent 
Who only hear paper money's sound 

Diamonds and jewels litter the streets 
A beggar's paradise, cornucopia 
A garden home with the fruit of life 
Princeful hobo's paradise 

A throne sits beside a store 
An old recliner to some, nothing more 
To the king who watches the world press 
A royal mountain peak, nothing less 

38 The cool wind warmed my soul 

Blowing fresh air within my mind 

Another step taken into time 

Life within the city's dust bowl. JDS 



Ocean Antics 



Maritime Marksman 

Taking careful aim, 
Poseidon 
bends back 
the bow. 
Suddenly he releases the taut string and the sea rushes forward 

to greet 
the 
eager sands. 



Rendezvous 

The amorous seawaves reached out to stroke 

The eagerly receptive sands. 

And the passionate murmurings of these unabashed lovers 

Were interrupted only the occasional laughter 

Of the spying gulls. 

39 
Charioteer 

Tireless liquid stallions 

Rush upon the white-gold shore, 

Presenting us with ocean's treasures. 

Only to take them back once more. 



Sea Gymnastics 

I stood there enraptured, 

An uninvited guest 

Cheering on the spirited somersault performances 

Of the seawaves as they competed 

In their salty games. 

By, Dr. Karen Schramm 



Appalachian Communion 

Out in the tranquil mountain lands, 

The mist still floating above cool lake. 

The sun a white-gold ball of glory, 

The softest of breezes swept across the waters, 

Rippling the smooth and placid surface. 

A flock of brown and white geese 

Wandered upon the grassy banks. 

Sampling the luscious vegetation. 

One stately creature, sentinel for them all, 

Stood and surveyed his water-lapped surroundings. 

His long, dark neck curled in a question-mark of curiosity 

At my unexpected approach. We stood silent. 

Contemplating each other, and sensing that neither one of us 

Had anything to fear, he resumed his perusal 

Of the quiet waters, which sought the banks 

With loyal devotion. The mist lifted slowly. 

The trees standing majestic, serene, 

Casting their many-hued reflections upon the mirror-lake. 

As the wild spirit bade me move on, I hiked upon 

The winding ridge-path, rejoicing in each perfect creation: 

Minute magenta wheel-spoke flowers and lemon-yellow daisies. 

Tiny coral starbursts and dainty orange bells, 

And the leaves, as they came swirling down from autumn trees, 

Fluttered brightly in the gentle wind, 

Streaming like arboreal petals: yellow flames with russet tinge, 

Ruby spangled with orange, pumpkin flecked with chocolate-brown. 

Strewing the path with a wild and colorful carpet, 

A polychromatic processional, lined with wild strawberries. 

Lush sorrel, mosses, and pencil-thin coh's foot, 

And the trees draped with nodding vines. 

And bushes bearing their jewel-bright berries. 

The sky glimmered softly through lacy canopy. 

The palest of pastel blues. Up ahead I spied a chapel. 

Nature-placed, among a grove of pines. My music was 

The hymn of birdsong, trilling liquid, silvery notes. 

My incense was of fir and laurel. 

And I heard a catbird, crying in the peaceful wilderness: 

"Come! Come! Thou sylvan spirit! Come and be one with us." 

And this was my sweet morning communion: 

The meats of nuts and the juices of berries, 

And the breezes laying their tender hands 

Upon my bowed head. 

By, Dr. Karen Schramm 



Thoughts 



Thoughts, thoughts are spinning round. 
I throw them up and they hit the ground. 
Down, down they fall; 

\'Siiere they have gone I know not at all. % 
Sorting, sorting thoughts that I have had, J 
Some of them good but most of them bad. | 
Mending, mending the hole in mg soul. | 

Trying to keep sane and make nj^self whole, f 
Striving, striving to completely understand; § 
Hoping and praying for someone to reach out a hand. 
Winning, winning at the game my mind pla^, 
Knowing that my thoughts are here to stay. ' 



41 



By, 

Courtney Beidelman 



so CRAZY 



Ah! For things can become so crazy, 

sometimes floating images help me along 

Out of this reality craze for a quick carpet 

ride around the moon. 

Yes, things can be so crazy. 

For when the trees show their true eyes and 

limbs welcome you; 

a slide down the hallway 

with incessant questions foggy in your mind; 

never really paying attention. 

So let's join and lie together, 

as the smoke rises slowly. . . 

tiny lights reflect in our eyes as we float. 

Ah! For things are so crazy. 

By, Melissa Anna Steucek 



42 



■"^^i 



Your arms have held my spirit for too long 

letting the trouble be much harder when it 

has to be the end. 

For now, all's fine, but I haven't seen your 

wild face in so long. 

I hear you in the distance crying out to me 

"Wild Child!" 

then none. 

For it's your mind's eye working into mine; 

not spoken thoughts but still in your head - 

when will you set them free? 

I've seen you as a brother, child, 

and still your tagalong; 

but now means more. 

Now captured in a bubble is distorted from view. 

by, Melissa Anna Steucek 



A little girl lost 

The rain falls, 

as the tears are too shed 

the river runs 

vast and long. 

The oppression of anger, 

sadness, and loneliness 

weighs heavily, 

scarring deeply. 

Sitting amidst 

the bustling crowd 

provides a brief barrier 

from the pages of reality. 

There's a little girl 

lost 

among the shadows of yesterday, 

cowering from the 

unknowing light of tomorrow, 

fearing even fear itself. 

Possessing only harsh feelings 

that yank at her soul, and 

tear apart her heart. 

A little girl lost 

in a world 

which used to be so familiar. By, Sharmon Clements 



Lost in the shadows 

she stands so distant 

yet I know 

and can feel her need - 

to be loved, to be held in the light. 

I reach 

to penetrate the 

edges of her reality 

with a gentle touch. 

I wish that 

moth would fly, 

to free her 

so she might once again speak - 

so her beauty could shine 

and be seen by all, 

especially her. 

If only kind words 

could be shed 

and absorbed 

by her deaf ears... 

...please reach to join us. 45 

My beautiful girl, 

your presence is so dearly missed. 

thy spirit should not 

be troubled so, 

let thy heart embrace the warmth - 

and slowly open 

like a budding flower 

to the morning sun. 

I want to let you know 

how much we care, 

how much we will always 

be here for you. 

A friendship is not part-time - 

it lingers in the light, 

as well as the shadows. 

Please take my hand 

and do not let go, 

for together we are much stronger 

than alone. 

I long to say so much By, Shannon Clements 

and I don't ever want 

it to be too late... 



46 




My World 

I can change hell to heaven and heaven to hell 

Inside my rage beginning to swell 

As two worlds merge, souls go insane 

While my inner-most demons feed off of the pain 

Their forms begin to warp and twist 

What once was human, now demon kissed 

Hell spawn born 

From flesh that's torn 

They all approach their master 

The legions form 

Demons swarm 

As I spread disaster 

Hell rumbles 

Heaven crumbles 

My powers growing faster 

I look over my fiery paradise 

Yes the last two realms have paid the price 

Christ and Satan chained to the wall 

From my grace they will never fall 

I release a howl, it's piercing unreal 

The pain it causes, my demons reel 

I call to them "serve me forever" 

Agree and your human ties I will sever 

Christ and Satan screaming with fright 

As I set the night of earth alight 

Fires blaze 

An unholy haze 

Demons pour into earth 

My horrid gaze 

Towns are razed 

It is my second birth 

What's left of heaven is its glowing ashes 

While back on earth thunder crashes 

Storms on the planet have all swirled 

While my Utopian army destroys the world 

Leaving the old and boring era behind 

I laugh and smile... the world is mine. 

By, Michael Spesha 



NO TIME 

NO TIME TO RELAX. 

NO TIME TO BREATHE. 

EVERYTHING RUSHING BY. 

EVERYONE BUSY. 

AS THE SAYING GOES. 

BUSY AS A BEE 

TIME FLIES BY 

WITHOUT A SINGLE BREEZE. 

THE HOURS THEY GO, 

UNTIL THE DAY COMES TO AN END, 

NO TIME TO MYSELF 

UNLESS IT'S TIME FOR BED. 



48 



By, 

Kelly Barnes 



July 24, 1998 

I'm 60 today, so my mother says 

So what? My mom is almost 90; Whew! 

We laid Dad Ziemer away at 73; 

Grandpa Ziemer lived to be 91 but Grandma only 80. 

It paid Grandpa to be kind! 

Mom's mom and dad checked out before that: 

70 and 75, to be exact. 

My friend Fred lived to be 103. His dad 105. 

My wife's mother died at 88, cool Katie Kuhi lived to be 93; 

It was my wife's mother's good care that kept Katie going. 

Some think it was her money and good breeding. 

When I met Sarah Knauss, she was 1 16; 

Nowlookat her--118! 

And the oldest woman in the world to boot! 

Have I got a friend in Pennsylvania or what! 

I'll say! It's old age. I've got a ways to go 

Before catching up with aforelisted family and friends. 

It's getting easier and easier to catch up to them. 

49 
I'll not die in my 50's; made it past that mark; 
40 's and 30's remain vivid in my gray matter. 

Passed my physical too. Puzzled the doctor to no end 

As I faced his inquisition. 

He couldn't find a thing wrong as he listened and probed, 

hammered joints and tapped his fingers oooover the surface. 

I pissed in a cup; coughed, turning left and right; 

(Dad would have been proud!) 

"Reflexes fine; eyes, ears, and nose okay; 

"BP 118 over 68", PSA was negafive too. 

"Do you exercise?" asked he. 

"I'm at the gym at 6:00 AM daily," said me. 

Cholesterol was 1 93 the last time I donated blood; 

Doc was amazed and copied all the numbers down. 

So he sent me for cardio tests; maybe the hospital will find 

Something wrong, or foul me up instead. Hope not! 

"I note, 'this is an unremarkable physical,' but your condidon is remarkable", 

"How old are you?" 

"Before you peek, pick a number," I said. But the file was in his hand. 



So I'm sixty for a whole year, and now free to be me; 

It's the wrinkles on the face that bother me. 

"What can you do about them, Father Time?" 

"You're only 60, Kid. Wait 'til you're my age," chided he. 



50 



Two small girls 

Barefoot on the road 
Even if our small feet are cold 

Happiness is ours 

As this traveler passed us by 

We showed her what we had spied 

A small kitten 

Even though it is not much 

And at first it bit at our touch 

We were smitten 

With this tiny white kitten. 

By, Rachel Stick 



By, Dr. Ziemer 



52 



THE TICKING OF GUILT 

In a class of real estate fundamentals that my wife and I took, there was taught the 
concept of "highest and best use of a piece of property. That dictated the fate of real 
estate, whether it was to be left as raw and, as housing, as commercial, or as agriculture. 

In a way the highest and best use of "time" in the Ziemer household that spawned me 
held a similar value dictated largely by Dad and his large railroad pocket watch. His 
famous words to us at the end of many meals were, "Well, Boys, let's go to work." And 
off to tractors, balers, combines, fields, forests, and livestock we went. He was a 
Cancer — a water sign, and most of us boys and Mom were Leos, or fire signs. Imagine 
the mixture. 

As we got older. Dad used to say. supported by Mom, Fm convinced, "If you boys stick 
around the farm — when the trend was to leave the farm and find work in a factory or join 
the military — and help 'the old man,' ITl see to it that you get a college education." 
Coming from those lips — a seventh-grade achiever — made them seem beyond our reach. 
But Mom's own college education and career as an educator backed this value in her 
quiet way. 

Dad disliked lazy people — "lazy bastard" being one of his oft-used expressions. He also 
imparted, "Any man who'll lie to you will steal from you." Being lazy was equivalent to 
stealing time away from someone else — family chores or employer. Dad's watch kept 
the time for us to start and stop work in the field. "Well Boys, it's time to go to dinner" 
(noon meal) or "It's time to quit and go to supper," or "It's time to study or go to bed." 
"An idle mind is the devil's workshop." The guilt trip I would experience — long before 
guilt-free potato chips arrived — about my use of fime in college or in later life never 
dawned on me then. If I'm non-productive, I may as well be in jail. 

Dad's wisdom rivaled my grandfather's who told us boys, "The Bible says it's better to 
sow your seed in the belly of a whore than spill it on the ground." At six years of age I 
had earned a Bible for perfect attendance at a summer Vacation Bible School. When I 
proudly brought it home and showed it to my grandmother, she said, "There are things in 
that book that little children shouldn't read." So I started from the beginning and read to 
the end and located every one of those passages, I'm sure. 

Many years later when he was 80, my grandfather had his own spiritual awakening to 
faith and my wife and I bought him his own large-print Bible to read. Every time he 
completed reading it he wrote the month and day in the back. After he died eleven years 
later, I inherited this Bible and checked those dates that he read it — 37 times in all. 

And so with the homespun commandments of Dad Ziemer, we matured, and Richard, 
Rodney, Robert and David Ziemer earned university educations. Our parents put no 
restrictions on where we could attend college — we could even leave the state of Oregon 
to do so. And so, off to universities went four young workaholic teenagers: known in the 



dining hall as waiters, in the library as reference workers for other students doing 
research, in the faculty wing as teachers' proofreaders and paper graders, on campus 
security working the night watch rounds, on campus maintenance keeping the campus up 
and running, or tutoring and reading to sight-impaired students. 

"Play" seemed not to be taught in our family. If it happened, we captured the moment by 
playing hard just as we worked hard. The booklet I was given. Play Ball, Son , by Dad's 
sister who pitched (without a glove) on the boys' baseball team helped us experience 
some family recreational teamwork. Since Dad could not run well, he usually pitched, 
and his stature as a Paul Bunyan on the mound burned many a ball into a catcher's 
unprotected hand. 

We were in school plays and musical groups but reflected not on the value of leisure to 
rebuild ourselves other than what we acquired through sleep and rest. I remember 
wanting to study voice lessons with a retired opera singer in Sandy, Oregon. Dad said I 
could, but I'd have to pay for them myself, training the voice didn't hold a candle to 
playing a guitar or an accordion. Furthermore, the guitar-toting troubadour who swept 
through Sandy selling acoustic and electric guitars with twenty lessons convinced Dad 
that boys our age should be playing Hawaiian or Spanish guitars. We studied and 
practiced for two years. Once during the local Sandy Strawberry Festival Dad 
sufficiently convinced the manager of a traveling amusement group that my brother and I 
could provide excellent accompaniment to his merry-go-round. Rodney and I sat on 
chairs surrounded by sawdust and played electric steel Hawaiian guitars while people 
threw in money. That was years before Elvis Presley became famous. Promoter Dad 
was pleased. 

But picking berries on Alma Frances Fields' farm garnered me cash to use for summer 
afternoon lessons for what I considered my instrument — my 14-year old voice. What all 
that early work also generated was a savings for me of $456.00 put away in the 
Clackamas County Bank at 1% interest to pay my tuition. The first semester's tuition 
was exactly $456.00, so I was well on my way to financing my own education. Dad and 
Mom's financial aid kicked in as a supplement without Stafford loans or grants. I busied 
myself with academics and campus waitering. By spring I wanted to sing in the opera 
chorus for a large-scale production of "Faust" Don't remember if I asked permission or 
not. Having been nicknamed "Frenchie" in high school and winning the Prix d'Hormeur 
came in handy for coaching the rest of the opera chorus in their lines. But rehearsals, 
performances, putting on makeup as a teenager ate into my time. How would I cope with 
the guilt of being recreational and not productive? 

With all sons in college. Dad used to say, "We borrowed $12,000.00 to put you kids 
through college." I reminded him of that oft-repeated statement when he visited us and 
got out my checkbook, asking, "How many zeros should I put after this number to pay 
you back?" 

"Put away your checkbook; I don't want your money." 



53 



With that he pulled out his wallet and said, "Your Ma and I sold some land and we're 
giving each of you boys some of the money. All of you helped clear the land." In my 
living room I saw $100 and $50 dollar bills peel out of his hand with a smile. Was my 
dad learning to enjoy the fruits of his labor without laboring any more? Was he learning 
to play? To relax? I was astounded but graciously accepted the $800.00. 

"Where did you keep this money when you traveled from Oregon to Pennsylvania?" I 
asked. 

"In a tin can under the front seat of the Ford," Dad said. 

We four Ziemer boys knew our dad invented the concept "work." It was a relief to see 
some of it now tempered with generosity. Taking him grocery shopping was fun. He 
could always pull money out of his pocket to pay a bill faster than Mom or any of us 
married sons could. 

"Put your money away; it's no good," he'd say. "Here's mine, use it" 

Must close; it's time for class, or did someone say "Recess"? 

By, Dr. Ziemer 



54 



Washing Grandma 

Liudvika and I 

In the middle, in the middle, you say, 

so I scrub the spot where the bra bothers you most. 

Scrub over the blotches of broken blood. 

They come in three colors: 

bright red, purple and black. 

It's from her medicine, the doctor tells me. 

Without it she couldn 't move. 

Skin moves too easily, 

as I rub this rag 

over the dented impressions 

in your hunched shoulders. 

Worn paths, 

made by many years 

of a tightly fit brassiere holding 

veiny mounds of fat. 

Your naked back. 

This soapy soaked terrycloth 

cannot feel its softness. 

Soft from time, like a piece of meat 

cooked on the stove all day. 

Excess suds run over your mounds 
of buttocks (one larger than the other), 
and down your dimpled thighs to 
calf. I can still see its core shape, 
wide muscle at the top tapering 
at the tendon 

to the foot that once proudly adorned. . . 
a high heel everyday. 

I touch you underneath the elbow 
you raise for me to wash underneath. 
I say, hold your arms like a rooster. 
Flapping your arms up and down, 
Cappa cappa dashems, you crow. 
Your wit has not gone. 



Now you take the rag. 



By, 

Courtney Beidelman 



Oll«r- 



Baby of Mine 



56 




The Gleaner 

High School Writing 
Competition 



The English Department 
is very happy to have sponsored its second 

high school writing competition, 

which was designed to showcase the work 

of young writers in the area. 

We were amazed at the talent, sensitivity, and 

ear for language shown in their poetry and prose. 

Our thanks and congratulations go to them, their families, 

and, of course, their English teachers! 

L.M. 



57 



Full Circle 

I see her and feel a strange maternal adoration- 

But she is much, much older than I, 

And once she felt that towards me. . . . 

Maybe she still does? 

Led me by the hand, mine chubby and soft in hers, 

I was a baby and she guided me. 

We sat by the big pond, feeding ducks. 

One duck, two ducks, three. 

See the ducks? 

So many ducks! 

Waddling, they come up to us. 

My eyes glow in awe. 

Now I lead her by the hand, hers wrinkled and soft in mine. 
She is like a baby, innocent yet wise. 
And I guide her; she is as naive as a child. 
Smiling at the ducks, she counts them- 
So many ducks! 
58 Do you see, do you see all of them? 

Tossing bits of bread with her wizened hands, 
Shaking now, not with exhilaration, but with age, 
She is like a baby. 
And I guide her now. 

We have come full circle- 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 
From innocent to innocent. 

It is all the same and then becomes the dawn again. 
We return to death just as we are born. 

And the little ducks continue to advance, always in search of bread 
But in the cycle, at some time or other, all of us, even the ducks 
Are naked. 



Heather Winick 

Wissahickon High 

Lynne Patterson 

Grade 12 



Natalie Gartner 

Council Rock 

Money Mrs. Ford 

Grade 12 



A woman stares out her kitchen window 

Thinks about her life 

Once divorced, once devastated 

Now she has him 

He's handsome, rich, a father 

Demanding of respect 

Authoritative, controlling, impatient 

Emotionally abusive 

Arrogant, dishonest, frustrating 

Uneducated and egotistical 

A tear rolls down her powered cheek 

And falls to the heavy rock on her finger 

It shimmers and she is reminded 

Security 

Looks out again and admires the pretty trees 

They are the color of money 

So she drops to her knees 



59 



Erin Snyder 

Wissahickon High School 
Mrs. Fimiano 
Grade 12 

I met Death one day, 
Walking down the avenue. 
And stopped to chat awhile. 
He tipped his hat, ever the gentleman. 
And deigned to keep me company 
As I wandered through the tree-lined streets, 
Overhung with branches. 
The mist rose silver, and our feet echoed 
Through the indigo dusk. 
Death took my arm. 

White-faced and handsome as any lover, 
And as I bent my head I heard him whisper. 
Soft in my ear, 
"Come with me. 
The stars shall have no fire 
To equal the heat of my kisses. 
And the gentle air shall never 
Surpass the tenderness of my caress. 
60 Oh, come with me, 

And let us two teach the world 

What it is to love! 

Come with me. 

And the brightness of the midday sun 

Shall never out-shine your happiness, 

Nor the silver face of the moon 

Eclipse your joy. 

Oh! Come! 

Lest my heart break 

Into a thousand pieces. 

Scattered by the desert winds, 

Each separate particle mirroring your face 

To the restless sky. 

If my heart were a platter 

I would serve my soul upon it. 

And if my love were a fountain 

I would pour its waters at your feet. 

Come with me. 

Let us walk together. 

And under your tiny, wandering footsteps. 

The whole of creation will burst into bloom. 



Erin Snyder 

Wissahickon High Sciiool 
Mrs. Fimiano 
Grade 12 



Tyger 



An air of sickness clung to her as she hurried through the crowded streets, her 
books clasped tightly to her chest. She'd been dreaming of a tiger, the old dream, the one 
she had in the hospital when she'd wake up shaking and sweating, her teeth biting her lip 
so deeply they drew blood. It seemed she had always been in the hospital, always had that 
dream when she was so sick the doctors would shake their heads in the corridors and 
whisper in low tones, "Such a pity... so young!" 

That had been why her family had moved to this busy Southern city, the hope that 
maybe warmth and sunlight would cure her when nothing else could. But now she was 
more alone than ever, in this place where her accent branded her a foreigner each time she 
opened her mouth. And so she hurried home, not noticing the crisp, sharp beaut}' of the 
golden autumn leaves in her longing to reach her bed and cry into her pillow, the way she 
always did when the pain got too bad, the loneliness more than she could bear. 

What did she look like to these Southern people, she wondered. What did they see 
when they glanced her way, at the slim, tall woman-child, shoulders hunched and bony 
from her prolonged illness? Did they remark upon her penchant for tripping, for breaking 
things? She could not believe they didn't whisper exclamations to each other behind their 
hands when she passed. 

She was winded from walking too fast, had to stop and rest for a moment to let 
the pain in her lungs subside, but the pain didn't go away. She doubled over, gasping, her 



61 



books tumbling to the street. A choking, squeezing feehng rose in her throat, seeming to 
go on forever. It was accompanied by a harsh, rasping noise throbbing in her ears, and she 
reaUzed that it was her own labored breathing. 

A soft hand brushed her elbow, took her and held her steady until the fit had 
passed and she could feel the pain subsiding. A warm, quiet voice, full of concern, asked, 
"Are you all right?" 

She nodded, choking out a "Yes" as she turned to look at the person who had 
stopped to help her in the strange city. It was a young man, his face still marked with the 
softness of a child and a delicate, almost feminine beauty. His auburn hair was tied back 
with a soft black ribbon, and his wide brown eyes regarded her with grave consideration. 
He had gathered up her books from where they had fallen. 

"Do you need help?" he asked, and she marveled at the low, silky quality of his 
voice. Mutely, she shook her head, and reached to take her texts from him. He didn't 
stop her, but somehow she found herself letting him keep them, and accepting his offer to 
walk her home. 

He was amazingly distracting. She had to force herself not to stare at him, at the 
strange, catlike grace with which he moved, at the way one strand of hair fell in his eyes. 
As she watched, he idly picked a wildflower from a nearby hedge and spun it by its stem, 
then, laughing delightedly, put it behind her ear, where it fell out and entangled itself in her 
hair. She found herself laughing, too, as she hadn't laughed in years, ever since the 
sickness. 

They sat down on one of the wrought iron benches of the little outdoor cafes so 
she could rest and catch her breath, the chiseled vines and roses pressing into her back 



with an excruciatingly delicious sharpness. The bright gold of the leaves was almost 
painful in its radiance. He was telling her about people, about the men and women who 
passed them, leisurely and confident in crisp suits, hands on hats to keep them from 
blowing off in the wind. "This woman, she's afraid for her daughter, Lydia. Lydia is 
pregnant, and the baby is dying. And that man, he's full of anger, hate, greed, all mixed 
into one obscene lust. He's wanted in Ohio." 

"So sad..." she murmured, eyes on the frail wreaths of clouds scudding across the 
sky. "Aren't there any happy stories?" 

"The happy stories end the soonest," he said, studying a blade of grass with quiet 
intensity, then turning to look at her with the same steadfast gaze. "The truly tragic ones 
never really stop. You never get to write 'finis' on the end of the page." 

"No end? How sad..." 63 

A melancholy smile flitted across his lips; then he was on his feet, gently urging her 
up. "We should get you home; it's going to rain soon. Look, you can see the undersides 
of the leaves in the wind." 

"I like the rain," but she was getting up, giving in and they were turning down the 
street, passing the crowds of Friday tourists, two more strangers in the eyes of the world. 
They hurried, a right turn here, and yes, there was the old Victorian, its paint peeling, 
shutters banging against the walls in the rising wind. "Well," she said, searching for words 
to thank him, but he bent and kissed her quickly, then walked off, keeping time with the 
dead leaves swirling in little circles down the street. 

She lay in her bed that night drifting in a sleepy half-doze, arms wrapped around 
her old, soft pillow and still feeling his kiss upon her lips. The storm beat patterns on the 



windowpane, an old Spanish dance fading into something strange and earthy, vaguely like 
the rustle of the leaves in the jungle. She thought she saw a tiger standing silhouetted against 
the window, its auburn hair shining in the intermittent flickers of the old iron streetlight, 
but her eyes were closed. She felt its warm, moist breath as it stood at the foot of the bed, 
heard the creek of the floorboards under its weight. 
She opened her eyes and embraced it. 



64 




Evening at Stirling Redoubt 

A cool, gray mist suspended from low clouds covered the gentry rolling battlefield. In the 
distance, the smoke of camp fires revealed the proximity of the British. Shadowy, box-like formations 
stood grouped towards the edge of the field, British soldiers tall and straight, and they were moving 
steadily, unfalteringly forward, a saber to the mist and a challenge to the waiting Americans. Closer and 
closer they came, and they neared the jagged picket fence, the outer bulwark of American defense. 
And crushing the fence, they came closer still, until the American cannon boomed and belched forth 
their fire and smoke from behind their mighty dirt embankments. Then, the musketeers opened fire, and 
volley upon volley, crisscrossed the field. Men lay crying and dying, the field trodden by their feet and 
the clover purpled by their blood. And all this happened as the moving men shadowed and hallowed 
the ground between the cannons and the fence. 

A patch of blue broke through the shrouded sky, whitening the clouds and dissolving the mist, gg 
In the distance, a column of smoke slowly rose from a factory chimney. Trees, their deep verdancy 
darkened by the dusk, sent creeping shadows across the field and the gray splintered picket fence that 
bisected it. And between a grassy time-worn embankment and the withered old fence lay a lawn of 
white and purple clover. Three silent cannon, anchored to the earth by entangling vines, poked their 
rusty noses from behind the mound. And to the left and right of the scene stood two monuments to its 
history, a chapel commemorating its spiritual peace and a great arch memorializing its great sacrifice. 



The lurid coolness of the thousand deaths 
Penetrated the evening stillness. 
Sacrifice at its greatest. 
Martyrs all. 

Peaceful memories invaded 
The calm, lonely battlefield; 

Rusting cannon, a withered fence, Julie Hackenbracht 

Pure, white clover. Upper Dublin HS 

Dr. Elizabeth Treat 
Eleventh Grade 



Theory of Relativity 



66 



"Do you always wear black?" We were shopping. I'd found a 
black and gray skirt with a nice black sweater. Black matched. 
(Black and black go together, I've always found.) 

"Yes." Heavy on the sarcasm. She didn't notice. 

"You shouldn't. It's unattractive." Marcy and I disagreed 
frequently. 

Marcy was my cousin. I was from Maryland, she came from 
Nevada. She only visited us every couple of years, so it was a 
major event when she came. 

My parents didn't mind her much, though they admitted her 
values are a little misplaced. This meant Marcy preferred 
things to people. And, as I compared her to my beautiful gray 
skirt, I thought she might be right, I liked the skirt better 
than her. 

I feel guilty for that. She was the relative closest to my 
age (we were separated by three months chronologically but light 
years in all other ways). So my parents and I agreed that we 
should try to get along. 

During Marcy's visits, my mother liked to remind me that 
she'd someday be the "closest thing to a sister you've got." My 
future life was looking bleak. 

I paid for the skirt. Marcy waited for me out in the mall, 
trolling for boys. 

I caught up with her in the food court. She was smiling at 
the guy behind the hamburger stand. I knew him. Rob. He was 
one of my friends, so of course I wasn't going to introduce them. 
I dragged Marcy away and out to the car. Turned on the radio to 
my favorite station (from the local college -- good stuff that you 



heard once and never again), opened the windows, and pulled out. 
Marcy shut the windows and put on the dance music. I opened the 
windows. She shut them. 

It wasn't worth fighting about. We drove home, AC blowing 
and Spice Girls blaring. 

As soon as we got home I ran to my room to change -- I was 
wearing a black skirt and feeling sort of insecure about the whole 
b o r n - 1 o o - 1 a t e - b e at - p e t thing. 

Marcy was sitting on my bed already, reading Cosmopolitan. 
"I'm going to fix up your hair. Give it some style." She whipped 
out a pair of scissors. (I guess she got them from my desk, 
though I'm not really sure why she would have been in there). I'm 
very weak-willed, I'll admit, so I sat down on the floor in front 
of her and shut my eyes as she snipped. 

I shouldn't have worried. Marcy was a star student at 
the cosmetology school. 

"I've never cut hair on a real person before." 

"Oh. So, um, what do you use?" I tried to sound nonchalant. 

"Foam heads," she answered, with absolute seriousness. 

I laughed. I shouldn't have, but I did. Which is when she 
got me with the scissors. 

It was an accident, I'm sure. But it hurt. 

"Look what you made me do. Now I'll have to cut it shorter 
to even everything out." 

I hadn't been worried until then. But had I been a seventy 



67 



68 



-year-old-man with high cholesterol, I would have had a heart 
attack or burst a vessel or something like that. 

I tried to stay sitting in front of her, but I couldn't do 
it. I ran to the mirror. 

My hair was half decent. I'm not sure what she did, but it 
worked. I felt bald. But a good sort of bald. 

At dinner, my mother asked me what happened to my hair. 
When I told her that Marcy had cut it, she looked surprised. 
"You know, your hair does look nice." I started to thank her, but 
Marcy chimed in. 

"Yeah, I know, her hair was dull, but I fixed it. I 
always do well on that kind of cut. I mean, hair like that 
makes anybody look good." 

I was glad when Marcy left. 1 told her I hoped she'd come 
back soon and she invited me to visit her the next summer, but 
neither of us meant it. 

Marcy would come back to Maryland a couple years later. Not 
much choice in the matter. My parents would decide that she and 1 
should bond, her parents would agree, and soon we'd be all be 
reunited at the airport. 

She stepped into the terminal. She was pretty much a grown 
up. Even though we were the same age. It was different for Marcy. 
I guess it was that she already had a job in a hair and nail place 
and I was just sitting around for one more summer, waiting to 
leave for college in the fall. However mature I'd thought 1 was, 
nothing really got me ready for seeing my cousin. 



We got back home, and before she had even unpacked she told 
me that she wanted to cut my hair again. I said thanks but no 
thanks this time -- I knew better. "I've learned a lot since last 
time, though," she said. "I could make you look good." She gave 
me a look that I didn't really like. 

Marcy and my mother went to the grocery store together. They 
compared the price of bananas in Las Vegas and Baltimore. 

Somewhere in there we canceled our traditional shopping trip. 
And then one night I heard Marcy, on the telephone with someone, 
refer to me as her "little cousin." 

She told us that she probably wouldn't come back for a few 
years. I noticed, as she packed up to go, that all her clothes 
were black. "It's how everyone dresses, " she said. "Very 
attractive. Makes you look more interesting. Thinner." She 
picked up a black tank top and tossed it over. "Try it on. It 
never did fit me quite right. Kind of big." Again that look. 

When Marcy left, she told me to come visit her in Vegas and 
promised my parents that she'd take good care of me. They seemed 
to believe her. 

Marcy, taller than me, older than me, (barely, I kept 
reminding myself,) got onto the plane to go home. I didn't miss her. 

I wore the tank top to the airport. It looked decent, I had 
to admit, but I mostly wore it to make Marcy feel better. I had 
three like it at home. 



"Theory of Relativity' 

by Emily Clinch 
Grade 11, Mrs. Simeon 
North Penn High School 



Lauren Claremon 

Upper Dublin High School 

Dr, Treat 

Grade 9 



Life 

Life has paths to follow 

There is a fork in the road, which way to turn 

You need someone to guide you 

How will you ever learn? 

One road is crooked, full of obstacle 

There may be a reward at the end 

The other is straight and simple 

No challenges, no bend 
The crooked one is rarely taken 

The other an easy way out 

If only there was a middle road 

There would be nothing to question about 

The easy road is tempting 

But you know that it is wrong 

You want to prove to everyone 

You can accomplish anything, no matter how long 

Pausing for a moment 

You have to make your choice 

So much pressure either way 



But then you hear a voice 

Something within you tells you what's right 

Outside you don't hear the same 

You chose the crooked path to prove how strong you are 

Friends chose differently but it's not them to blame 

It was a difficult journey and you have made it 

The two roads meet again 

Now you can accomplish anything 

The other side needs something in which to depend 

You feel so good and proud 

That's the way it should be 

You see friends from the other side 

They can not quite see 

There is no reward visible 

But inside you know 

What you heard from the inside 

Was the right way to go 



71 



*?^ 









'nt^ 




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